Swank 65 – 2nd Open Women | 2nd Overall Triple Crown
Series
29.83 miles | 3:21:05 hrs | 4,925 ft elevation gain
The last race of the season—Swank 65—and with it, that familiar mix of anticipation and disbelief: Am I really race-ready for these raw, technical Pisgah trails?
Turns out, I was.
I finished 2nd in Open Women, matching my best time on this demanding course, and wrapped up 2nd overall in the Triple Crown Series. It was the perfect finale—sunny, crisp, and full of everything I love about racing here: challenge, camaraderie, and connection.
After days of cold rain, we were gifted a warm, golden day. It was 52°F at the start, but I decided to skip the layers—a great call. By the first big climb, I was already toasty and feeling strong. Cool conditions always bring out the best in me.
She passed me on the first climb, and I followed closely through the rooty sections, calm and steady. When she slipped on a slick root and I managed to clean it, I slipped by, and we found ourselves riding together—laughing, cheering each other on, and still pushing hard. It’s rare to have that kind of friendly rivalry; it made the day even more special.
At the top, the off-camber roots and damp leaves were waiting. My tires gave out twice—small slips but enough for Stacey to reclaim the lead. I knew she’d crush the descent, so I braced for it. She flew down Sycamore, and by the time I hit the road, she was a good dot ahead of me.
The next climb was relentlessly long—over thirty minutes of steady gravel that just kept going. I could see Stacey ahead, maybe 40 seconds up the road, but I made the conscious choice not to chase hard. There’s a fine line in Pisgah between riding strong and burning too many matches too soon—and I knew what was waiting at the top.
Because once the gravel ends, you hit the Upper Upper Black Mountain climb: steep, rooty, and technical in every sense. It’s one of those climbs where brute force isn’t enough—you need finesse, balance, and a clear head. The roots are slick, the switchbacks are steep, and every wrong line costs you both time and energy.
I reminded myself that it’s smarter to stay composed and save my focus for the hard parts ahead. I stayed seated, spinning smooth and trying not to stress too much about my position. When the gravel finally pitched up into the singletrack, the real work began.
That climb feels endless—logs to step over, rocky sections,
and the kind of roots that require you to dance on the bike, fight for tractions, all while totally in red zone. But it’s also
beautiful: the sunlight filtering through the trees, the wind picking up near
the ridge, and that deep Pisgah silence between breaths.
I passed a few riders on my way up, inching closer to the
top, and by the time I crested the final section, I saw Stacey just before the
last pitch. I was patient, focused, and proud of how I rode that
section—steady, technical, and super close to clean.
By the top, I had reeled her back in. I let a few guys go
ahead for the descent and offered Stacey to go first too—“Go ahead and enjoy
it,” I said. I knew her descending skills and trusted that if I was meant to
catch her, I would.
That descent was wild—boulders, roots, moving rocks, and
deep leaves—but I stayed smooth and in control. Twice I had to stop to stretch
my arms from the arm pump, it was that intense. Still, I hit the gravel
smiling, knowing Bennett Gap was up next. I wasn't sure how I felt about it at the time, as I knew it was the most difficult part of the race.
At the feed, Pax was there with perfect timing, handing me a fresh bottle after nearly 40 minutes without water. He’d been chasing me all day on his e-bike on those gravel roads, cheering and getting his own adventure in. Seeing him out there again, after years off the bike, made me so happy.
I caught my friend Ben on the climb—he laughed, “I’ll catch you on the descent!” and I said, “We’ll see about that!” A few minutes later, I worked my way back to Stacey, passing her just minute or so before Bennett.
She smiled and said, “Go get it, Beata!”
“Great work, Stacey, you killed it on Avery” I replied.
Then the final Pisgah chaos began—roots, drops, off-camber madness, and a brutal wind whipping through the treetops. The overlooks were stunning; I caught just a flash of the mountains and said “Wow,” before diving back into the leaves.
I didn’t know how I was going to handle Bennett, but I was
doing so much better than expected. At one point, my tires washed out
completely and I landed in a soft pile of leaves, laughing—“Yeeehaw!” It was
perfect. I picked myself up, still grinning, and carried on through the
toughest lower sections.
The trail was slick and unpredictable, but I rode it with
confidence and flow, even though I hadn’t pre-ridden it on my race bike. It was
tricky, but I felt strong—calm and focused in the middle of all that Pisgah
mayhem.
At the bottom, I saw Pax and Madison’s parents cheering.
“F—yeah, that was fun!” I yelled, and everyone laughed. To my surprise, there
was no sign of Stacey behind me. That meant I’d ridden Bennett really well. My
worst-case scenario had been to exit just behind her and have to claw back time
on the next climb, but I was already ahead—and that felt great.
Still, I kept pushing. I wanted to finish this race knowing
I’d ridden strong from start to finish. The final climb came, and I dug
in—steady, powerful, focused. The last descent was fast and furious but
controlled, and I was ecstatic to cross the line in second, feeling good and
proud.
Later, I learned Madison had crashed on Upper Upper, and
Stacey had gone down twice near the end on Black. It was that kind of day—Pisgah rawness
in full force.
After some baked potatoes from The Ktchn, chatting with
other riders, and the podium celebrations, it was time to roll home. The air
was cooling fast—just in time for the coming freeze and first snow of the
season.
It was the perfect ending to an adventurous year—a day of gratitude, fierce competition, and happiness on two wheels.
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